After the Fire

by Will Hill

  So very, very tired.

  “Is there anything else you want to know?” asks Agent Carlyle. “The information I have is pretty limited, but I’ll tell you anything I can.”

  “Did he have a family?” I ask. My voice is a thick croak. “Did he have people on the Outside waiting for him?”

  “He had parents and a sister in Arizona,” he says. “They’ve been informed. He wasn’t married, and he had no children.”

  I nod, because I don’t have the slightest idea what to say. More grief, more misery, more broken lives.

  More pain.

  “I’m so sorry, Moonbeam,” he says. “I really am. There’s nothing I would love more than to come in here one morning and give you some news that actually made you happy. We debated telling you about Nate, but in the end neither of us believed that keeping it from you was the right thing to do. I hope you think we made the right call.”

  No. Yes. I don’t know.

  “I’m going to end this session here,” says Doctor Hernandez. “This is a lot to take in, and I want to make sure you have the time and space you need to process it. But I’ll be here for the rest of the day, as usual. If you need me, tell one of the nurses and I’ll be there as soon as I possibly can.”

  I manage a tiny nod. “Thank you.”

  I sit down on my bed as Nurse Harrow closes my door. The tears come as soon as I hear the lock slide into place, spilling from me with such force that it feels like they might never stop.

  I try to picture the Nate I knew, the kind, decent man who almost never treated me like a little girl and tolerated my crush on him and never took advantage of it. But the only image my poisonous, treacherous brain is either able or willing to conjure up is Nate with a pair of disembodied hands wrapped tight around his neck, his handsome face turning purple, his beautiful green eyes bulging as the life is squeezed out of him. I see the grave that awaits him, a shallow hole in the desert surrounded by an audience of coyotes and vultures, patiently waiting to fight over his insides.

  I lurch up from the bed, my stomach convulsing, and lean over the sink, suddenly certain that I’m going to puke. I retch and spit and retch again, my body heaving uncontrollably, but nothing comes up. Tears drop steadily into the sink and I can taste salt and my skin is all hot and I don’t want to look into the polished sheet of metal that serves as a mirror because I don’t want to see my face.

  When my stomach finally settles, I stagger to my desk and start drawing. The pencil carves deep grooves into the paper, black lines and jagged shapes, as I try to give a shape to the anger and grief that are filling me, to somehow get them out of me and trap them on the page.

  I believed Nate got away.

  With all my heart, I believed it.

  Even in those terrible final days, when I doubted everything and trusted nothing, I always believed that he escaped, that he was somewhere out in the world, the same as my mom. But if Nate is—

  Don’t, whispers the voice in the back of my head. Don’t go down that road. There’s nothing good at the end of it.

  But I can’t help it.

  Because what did I really see, the day they Banished my mom? Amos drove her out of The Base in the pickup, then came back without her. Father John told me she was going to be taken into Layfield, but what if he gave another order, one that I didn’t hear? What if Amos just took my mom into the desert and—

  Don’t do this to yourself, begs the voice. Please don’t.

  I squeeze my eyes shut and breathe in through my nose and out through my mouth, over and over again, until my head slowly starts to clear. When I open them again, the thought is gone. The root remains though, twisted and gnarled and impossible to argue my way around.

  My mom is gone.

  Nate is dead.

  Which leaves my Brothers and Sisters, and Agent Carlyle, and Doctor Hernandez.

  They’re all I have left in the world.

  Nurse Harrow puts my breakfast tray on the desk and tells me my morning session is cancelled, but that Doctor Hernandez is on call if I need him.

  I was excused from SSI yesterday afternoon. I didn’t mind. I didn’t want to talk to anyone, and I don’t think I would have been a very positive influence on my younger Brothers and Sisters. Instead, I drew and paced back and forth and lay on my bed and, at some point after the small square of sky I can see through the high window had turned black, I fell asleep.

  I can’t remember my dreams, if there were any. It feels like a mercy.

  Breakfast is yoghurt and fruit and bacon and a tiny stack of pancakes and a plastic cup of orange juice and it all looks good but I’m not remotely hungry. I feel completely empty, but I don’t think it’s really a physical sensation.

  I know I should eat something so I force down half the pancakes and a couple of pieces of fruit, even though swallowing makes me really aware of my throat and that brings the image of Nate’s bloated, strangled face back into my mind. I try to push it away, but focusing on it only makes it sharper and more detailed and my mind is determined to fixate on the very worst of it: the broken blood vessels in his eyes, the burst capillaries under his skin, the spit and foam on his lips.

  My stomach revolves and I run to the door and press the CALL button on the wall beside it. Instantly, as if by magic, Nurse Harrow opens the door and asks if I’m all right.

  “No,” I say, because I don’t see any point in lying to her.

  “Are you ill?” she asks. “Do you need me to fetch one of the doctors?”

  I shake my head. “Can you ask Agent Carlyle to come and see me?”

  She frowns. “I’ll have to run that past Doctor Hernandez.”

  “That’s fine,” I say. “Please ask him not to come though. I only want to see Agent Carlyle.”

  “Okay, Moonbeam,” she says, her frown fading but not quite disappearing altogether. “I’ll take your request to him now.”

  “Thank you.”

  Nurse Harrow gives me a small, slightly unconvincing smile, then disappears away down the corridor.

  I try to draw while I wait for her to come back with Doctor Hernandez’s response, but everything comes out ugly and weird, so I crumple up the paper and lie down on my bed and stare at the ceiling until I hear the familiar sound of a key turning in a lock. I swing my feet onto the floor and sit up, expecting to see Nurse Harrow’s endlessly kind face, but when the door swings open its Agent Carlyle who walks into my room.

  “So this is where they keep you,” he says, and smiles at me. “Luxurious.”

  I return his smile with one of my own. “It’s an upgrade on where I used to live, believe it or not.”

  He grunts with laughter. “I believe you.”

  “Thanks for coming,” I say. “I didn’t know if they’d let you. Or if you would.”

  “Doctor Hernandez caught me in the parking lot,” he says. “I’m supposed to be on my way to Odessa.”

  “Will you get in trouble for not going?”

  His smile widens as he shrugs. “I guess they’ll just have to manage without me,” he says. He takes hold of the door, then stops. “I need to leave this open. Is that okay with you?”

  “Why?”

  “There are rules on unmonitored interactions. It’s a safeguarding issue.”

  I smile. “So I can call for help if you decide to attack me for some reason?”

  “Correct.”

  The word “unmonitored” sticks in my mind. “So does that mean there really aren’t any cameras in here?”

  He shrugs. “Not as far as I know. So. What can I do for you, Moonbeam?”

  I shuffle across the bed until my back is against the wall and wrap my arms around my knees. “It’s been hard for you, hasn’t it?” I say. “Listening to me talk about the Legion?”

  He nods without hesitation. “It has,” he says. “I’m sorry if it’s been obvious, but…yeah. I’ve found it hard. Very hard, at times.”

  “Why?”

  His eyes glaze over slightly as he consider
s my question. “I guess I like to believe the world is fundamentally a fair place,” he says after a moment. “I’m sure that sounds naïve, especially to you, and I’ve seen plenty of horrible exceptions over the course of my career, but I sleep easier at night when I can convince myself that people get what they deserve, by and large. Do you get what I mean?”

  I nod. “I think so.”

  “Right,” he says. “So here’s the thing. I don’t doubt for a second that there were plenty of people inside the Legion, maybe even a majority of them, who were living the way they had come to believe their Lord wanted them to. I know there were, because you’ve told me about them. I think they were decent and I don’t think they meant any harm, but they still ended up dead on the ground with guns in their hands because John Parson scared them and twisted them up and fed them lies. I’ve seen their photos, these men and women who paid with their lives for putting their faith in the wrong person, and I look at them and I don’t think they were stupid or vicious or weak. I think they were misled, and I think what happened to them could happen to anybody, given the right set of circumstances. To people I know. People I love. And I try to imagine how that would make me feel, but I can’t do it. I can’t imagine where I would even start.”

  I’m pretty sure that’s the most I’ve ever heard him say in one go. He looks a little paler than he did when he walked through the door, but his eyes remain locked on mine.

  “Part of me hopes Father John was right all along,” I say. “It would mean all my dead Brothers and Sisters are sitting beside The Lord right now, just like he promised them.”

  “But you don’t think that’s the case?”

  I shake my head.

  “Did anyone defy him?” he asks. “When he told everyone to fight to the last, did anyone refuse?”

  The memories of that morning, which are never far below the surface, rush into my head – the flames, the smoke, the blood.

  “Yes,” I say. “I saw some people try to hide. It didn’t save them though.”

  He shakes his head. “No.”

  “They’re not who you’re asking about though,” I say. “Are they?”

  He shakes his head again.

  “You know, don’t you?”

  Agent Carlyle gives me a gentle smile. “Why don’t you just tell me what happened when you went into the Big House?”

  I stare at him.

  Go on, whispers the voice in the back of my head. Tell him. Let it all go.

  I take a deep breath.

  Bella’s eyes widen and she raises the pistol but I’m already moving because I’ve had one gun pointed at me in the last five minutes and that was more than enough.

  I slam my hand down on her wrist. The impact vibrates all the way up my arm and Bella howls in pain as the gun spills to the ground. I step forward and push her in the chest. She staggers backwards until her feet tangle and she sprawls flat on her back. My hands are balled into fists as I stride towards her because I’m scared and I’m pulsing with adrenaline and I don’t think I’ve ever felt so angry as I do right now, so completely fucking outraged. I snatch the pistol up off the ground and point it at her heart.

  “Where is she, Bella?” I growl. “I’m not going to ask you again.”

  “I don’t know,” she says.

  “I don’t believe you,” I say, and raise the pistol so it’s pointing between her eyes. “Tell me where she is. Right now.”

  “She’s safe,” whispers Bella. “She’s with The Prophet.”

  “Where?” I ask. “In the Big House?”

  She nods. I turn away without another word, and sprint back the way I came.

  Orange flames are licking across the roof of the Big House as I approach it, sending a column of black smoke into the sky. The air is thick and bitter and I’m coughing behind my hand and my eyes are watering as I reach the steps. I’m staggering up onto the porch when four gunshots ring out from inside the house, deafeningly loud and almost simultaneous. I hurl myself flat as terror explodes through me.

  Not Honey. Oh please, not Honey. Please.

  I stay down and listen, my face pressed against the hot wooden boards and my heart thumping against my ribs, but there’s silence from inside the building. Behind me, out across the yard, the shooting seems to have died down a little, but I can’t let myself think about what that probably means. Instead, I get to my feet and kick open the front door and step inside the Big House, Bella’s pistol trembling in my hand.

  The first thing I smell is gun smoke.

  The first thing I see is blood.

  It’s everywhere, splashed across the walls and running across the floor in glistening rivers. An awful coppery smell cuts through the acrid smoke and makes me gag. I take half a dozen deep breaths, squeeze my eyes shut for a brief, blissful moment, then force myself to look more closely at a room that now resembles a slaughterhouse.

  Lying in a circle in front of the fireplace are four dead bodies. The backs of their heads are gone, but I recognize them all.

  Bear. Lonestar. Jacob. Angel.

  Father John’s Centurions.

  Three of them are holding pistols in their dead hands, and a gun lies on the floor beside the open fingers of the fourth. Grey smoke is drifting lazily out of their mouths. Their eyes are closed, their legs bent, knees together, and I fight back a wave of nausea as understanding slams into me.

  They were kneeling down. When they shot themselves, they were kneeling down.

  A sound that is somewhere between a sob and a gasp escapes my lips. Because this is insane, this is just completely—

  There’s a noise to my left.

  I turn, the pistol shaking in my hand, in time to watch Father John step through the door beneath the stairs, the one that leads down to the basement. He stops as he sees me, his eyes narrowing.

  “Moonbeam,” he says, his voice still full of its rumbling fire. “Why aren’t you fighting with your Brothers and Sisters? Did you not hear my order?”

  “I heard it,” I say, and I can hear the anger vibrating in my voice, can actually hear it. “Why aren’t you fighting, Father? Why are you hiding in here?”

  “Watch your mouth,” he says, his face darkening. “The Lord has a plan for each of us. He does not make mistakes.”

  “No?” I ask. “What happened to the Centurions?”

  He frowns, as if I’ve asked a stupid question. “They have Ascended.”

  “Did you tell them to do it?” I ask, even though I already know the answer. I just want to hear him admit it.

  “I explained what The Lord required of them,” he says. “I didn’t put the guns in their hands. I am merely His messenger.”

  “You’re a murderer,” I growl. “They trusted you and believed in you and now they’re dead, just like half the people outside are dead. You killed them. You did.”

  “Your Brothers and Sisters are fighting bravely against the Servants Of The Serpent,” he says. “Which is more than can be said for you, Moonbeam. They understand what is at stake, and if The Lord chooses this day to Call them Home, they will Ascend in Glory.”

  “Then why didn’t you Ascend with the Centurions?” I ask.

  “The Lord is not done with me yet,” says Father John. “There is still work for me to do in this realm.”

  I stare at him as something occurs to me. It’s awful, but I instantly know it’s the truth; I can feel it, deep in my bones.

  “You told them you would,” I say. “Didn’t you? You told them you were going to die with them.”

  “How can I possibly know what they were thinking in their final moments?” he says. “They Ascended with smiles on their faces and the Glory of The Lord in their hearts, so what does it matter?”

  I raise the gun, almost without realizing I’m doing so, and point it at the centre of Father John’s chest. He goes very still.

  “Don’t be stupid, Moonbeam,” he says. “Give me the gun.”

  I shake my head. “Where’s Honey?”

  He
frowns. “I have no idea.”

  She means nothing to him. None of us mean anything to him.

  “Bella said she was here.”

  “She was,” he says. “I let her join her Brothers and Sisters.”

  “She’s fourteen years old,” I say. Every inch of my body feels cold, like I’ve been dipped in ice water. “And you sent her out into the middle of a gunfight?”

  “She asked to go,” says Father John. “She wanted to fight with her Family. How could I deny her that opportunity?”

  “Like you couldn’t deny Bella?” I say, my voice rising. “Or Star, or the rest of the women who called you their husband? They went out there with guns in their hands while you cowered back here. How could you do that to people you claim to love?”

  “The Lord grants wisdom to those who can handle it,” says Father John. “He does not make mistakes. Now give me the gun, Moonbeam. I won’t ask you again.”

  The pistol starts to shake violently in my hand as he takes a step towards me.

  “Give me the gun,” he repeats, his voice low and gentle. “You’re right, I should have led the Legion’s charge myself. I should have stood with our Brothers and Sisters, but I am merely human, Moonbeam. We are merely human, and we are flawed, and The Lord understands our weakness. But we can Ascend together, you and I. We can go to Him, this very moment, and we can sit at His side for all eternity. Just give me the gun.”

  I take a step back. “Don’t come any closer.”

  He smiles at me. “You’re not going to shoot me, Moonbeam,” he says. “You are a good girl, and you walk the True Path. You wouldn’t shoot your Prophet.”

  “You are no Prophet of mine,” I say, my voice trembling. “You’re a coward, and a fraud. My mother was right about you.”

  Fury explodes onto his face. “And you are nothing more than a Heretic whore,” he snarls. “Like the Godless bitch that spawned—”

  The gun goes off with a deafening bang.

  Everything stops. For the briefest of moments, the living room is absolutely still and absolutely silent, as though the universe has been paused. Then Father John takes an uncertain step backwards, his eyes widening, his hands groping for his chest, and everything happens really quickly.